Fall from Grace
Written by Wolsal
September, 2024
“Kneel before me and return the crown, Rat.”
Cages of trapped cultists swung from the ceiling, the chains ominously creaking as they all stared on in abject terror.
The smooth, venomous voice boomed throughout the domain, excitement dripping from every syllable, pooling at his lips as he spoke.
Huge, slitted, green eyes stared expectantly down at the small rodent below him, clutching onto the crown as if they would immediately drop dead upon releasing it.
Pity to think they could believe it would be quick.
Silence filled the room, permeating through every second without an answer.
.
.
A step backwards, a shaking head, ears pinned back. They looked terrified. Small pupils darted around, as if searching their surroundings for an answer, for any sort of rationalization for what they were about to say.
“No.” A word spoken with such finality, such resonant certainty that you would think they’d spoken that word every day of their life.
He had never heard their voice. In that moment, he wished he never had.
A smile too wide for comfort curved into a deep sneer, eyes narrowing into a glare that could cut through the most iron willed spirit.
“... what do you mean no…?” He spoke, eye twitching with suppressed rage. It wasn’t a question. They both knew it wasn’t.
They took another step back, shaking their head. “N-no…” They said, voice quieter this time.
The ichor stained face of the looming figure contorted into a look of undiluted primal fury dawned across his face.
In a quick fluid motion practiced a thousand times over, the inky black crown seemed to melt, crawling up their forearm and into their hand, forming a sharp clawed gauntlet, points so sharpened they cut through flesh like butter.
“Oh, you wanna play like that?” The sneer morphed back into the same grin he sported, even more malice seeming to practically foam at the corners of his mouth.
5 deafening snaps rang out through the domain, resounding like the resonant bang of a gong.
“Alright, Rat. Let’s play.” He practically growled through gritted teeth.
2 hooves made their place on the ground, the previously crumpled form now stood, his true size now loomed threateningly down.
They raised their gauntlet.
Something seemed to snap at that moment. The fight had begun.
He raised a hand, raising it to bring down on the vermin. In a split second dodge, they skidded out of the way, lifting the clawed hand and bringing it down into his arm. He tensed at the sudden pain that pricked into his skin.
A loud snarl sounded from the very back of his throat, spraying a bright green substance that practically bubbled with acidity.
Ratil ducked away, using the sharpened glove to dig into Solomon’s neck, hoisting themself up. He howled in pain, whipping around to crush the life out of them.
4 sharpened blades tore through his skin, ichor pouring down his shoulders as the wound opened. A hand reached up, attempting to grab the figure that jumped down, landing onto the ground and rushing the tall figure. They grabbed onto his leg, claws sunk deep into his rotting flesh.
It was a whirlwind of blood, viscera, gore and madness.
A scream of pure, unbridled anger resounded, the primal roar that could only be made by someone completely consumed by rage.
Disgusting sounds of twisting bones, muscles and tendons reorganizing and snapping into place. A brain that seemed to melt in its cradle, revealing shattered bones and a cavity filled with decay, maddened eyes, organs trailing out of his open stomach where 2 arms extended from the decomposing mass.
A white knuckled hand slammed down, then the next, then the next, a flurry of pummels rained down onto the ground, yet he was too slow.
They darted behind his arms, slashing at his exposed chest. He slapped them aside, sending them flying backwards from the force, momentarily winded. They couldn’t rest, They would catch their breath later. They jumped back up a moment before a puddle of acid found its home right where they sat a moment before.
Tangled, curled hair now matted with blood spilled down his shoulders. If you looked closely, you could see as the bugs spilled down, crawling to cover his open wound on his shoulder.
Ratil saw the exhaustion beginning to creep its way into his body, attacks becoming slower.
They grabbed a fistful of his hair, scurrying upwards to his head.
He yelled, shaking his head to dislodge them. They stayed in place, unscathed.
He stilled for a moment, intense dizziness enveloped him for a brief stint. This was their chance.
They used one claw to steady themself as they gripped onto the fur by his shoulder.
With a careful motion, they sunk the claws of the gauntlet into the front of his neck, digging in as deep as they could.
A final gurgled roar of pain sounded from his throat before he collapsed into a heap below, ichor spilling out of the body that lay still on the ground it had been forced to live on for centuries.
And, in the blink of an eye, a pile of robes took the place of the corpse, leaving nothing behind.
Ratil slid downwards, head turning to face upwards at their followers.
They won.